


John Doe

by Emelye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, M/M, Unrequited Love, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 23:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1204300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emelye/pseuds/Emelye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There was no way he could kill himself with John’s gun. For many reasons, least of which would be the implausibility of acquiring the Sig while John domiciled elsewhere. Housebreaking was child’s play, yes, but the likelihood of such an attempt slipping past Mary’s notice was slim. No, John’s gun was right out. It could potentially implicate John, and besides, it was tacky."</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Doe

There’s no way he could kill himself with John’s gun. For many reasons, least of which would be the implausibility of acquiring the Sig while John domiciled elsewhere. Housebreaking was child’s play, yes, but the likelihood of such an attempt slipping past Mary’s notice was slim. No, John’s gun was right out. It could potentially implicate John, and besides, it was tacky. 

No, it would have to be something else. As a graduate chemist there were dozens of potential compounds he could ingest. A drug overdose would be by far the most pleasant but acquiring junk plausibly pure enough to result in an overdose would have all Mycroft’s alarms going off at once and he’d be back in rehab faster than he could say “oops.”

So poisoning, then. Right.

The creak of the floorboards were hateful as he levered himself from the sofa into the kitchen. 

It was half ten in the morning. Mrs. Hudson was visiting next door and would likely be out for the afternoon. He wouldn’t want her to stumble on his body. He’d compose a text to Mycroft. 

Sherlock lit the burners and began pulling down vials from the cupboards. 

This was logical, he thought, measuring and mixing. He despised self-delusion in others. It was so easy to see people’s hopes laid out before them and know they wouldn’t achieve a single one, to know without a doubt that they would go to their deathbed in some third-rate care facility without having seen Rome or found love or a sense of purpose. But they told themselves these pleasant fictions to justify their meaningless existence.

He could never be Mycroft. He wasn’t smart enough, would never be smart enough, and would always have these dull, plebeian and ultimately unfulfilled needs. He wished he could shut it off, shut it out, forget what it was to believe for even five minutes that he could be enough for someone like John. 

He knew it was a lie every time he saw the restless expression on John’s face after he’d been half-heartedly browsing dating sites on his laptop. Every time they went for coffee and John’s imagination lingered on the shapely young barista. Every time he made a remark about the burden of his “human needs,” as if Sherlock was some sort of calculating machine immune from the desire for touch, for connection. He supposed he might have thought it tremendously flattering once when his only aspiration was to be the cool paragon of reason his brother had once appeared to be. It had long ago ceased to be so complimentary when he’d unexpectedly had his heart’s desire drop into his flatshare with an illegal firearm to push tea and companionship on him. John made him happy for the first time in his life and in doing so, ruined him utterly. Because however content he’d been, John would never be satisfied by him and him alone. John wasn’t gay. And Sherlock, whatever else he was, was in love with John Watson.

Sherlock stirred the final mixture and turned up the burner to wait for it to condense.

Sherlock saw the rest of his life through his mind’s eye. Rattling around Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson’s rambling company, his brother’s occasional visit until the stress of his job and frankly appalling eating habits resulted in an early heart attack. Mrs. Hudson would likely retire to Spain within a few years. She’d leave him the place, of course. John would continue to visit weekly until the baby was born. They’d make pleasant conversation that would gradually grow more and more strained with less and less to say to one another until visits tapered to every few weeks, then months. The baby would grow and require more and more of it’s father’s attention and Sherlock would be remembered on his birthday and Christmas until the little darling’s school outings and pageants necessitated the cancellation of even those visits that Sherlock had begun to set his calendar by. Once yearly visits would end and Sherlock would continue to lie to himself that he had a friend at all because it was far too frightening to contemplate the silence of his flat alone. Without John the stares and remarks would once again feel sharp against his skin. His _otherness_ would feel more isolating. He’d miss data for the distraction and as Lestrade’s caseload tapered off in anticipation of retirement, he’d spend more and more time without work. Mummy and Dad would likely be gone. He might consider moving home to escape the casefiles and experiments gathering dust. More likely he’d start to use again, hoping against hope that someone might notice. No one will. He’ll run out of money. Sell his belongings. Lose the flat most likely. End up on the street. Sell his body for smack and every time be nearly high enough to pretend he’s being roughly handled by the practiced hands of an army surgeon. Maybe someday Donovan will come looking for him, looking for help on a case, but there’ll be nothing left of his mind by then. The drugs will have long since seen to that. She’ll feel a stab of pity but mostly justified in her mistrust all those years ago. That will be the last anyone will have seen of him until he ends up on a mortuary slab where he’ll remain unclaimed. Molly will have long since married and moved on. If John ever remembers him, it will be after his child has gone to Uni and he and Mary have finally separated, but when he goes to look for Sherlock he’ll not find him. He’ll tell himself Sherlock’s gone to France or has disappeared on some adventure. He’ll envision him as the hero of so many actioner films he enjoyed once and never think on him again.

Sherlock turns off the burner, removes the graduated cylinder to the sink and rinses it down the drain. The vials go back in the cupboard, the pipettes to their drawer. Sherlock returns to the sofa, lays down, steeples his fingers beneath his chin and breathes once, twice and smiles. 

He’ll never have John’s name in life, but he can have it in death. 

Sherlock supposes it’s worth the wait.


End file.
